Man in the Iron Mask, Gen Fic 9: Out of the Depths
by Amadeus1
Summary: The deposed King Louis, in the Bastille, is ill to the point of death. Philippe's conscience demands that his brother be unmasked long enough to recover. The surviving Musketeers must stand guard over Louis -- with consequences for Louis, Athos and Andre.


Out of the Depths

Out of the Depths

by Amadeus

[r_amadeus@hotmail.com][1]

The heavy door clanged shut behind the man in the black cloak, like the slam of a coffin lid. Aramis stood for a moment in the chill of the thick stone walls and drew his cloak more closely around him. The prison governor bowed and ushered him into the anteroom. 

"I'm glad you're here, Father. My orders don't say … I didn't know if I should send for you." He was clearly worried. This prisoner was important; a wrong decision might mean his job. "I think you ought to know, the prisoner's sick. He hasn't eaten for three days, just lies there," he said nervously. Aramis' pulse quickened, but he looked at him without encouragement. The prisoner was no business of the governor's. Defensively, the man went on. "I wouldn't think anything of it, normally. The isolation takes them that way sometimes, and in his case, of course, there's that extra factor …"

"How did you know he was sick?" Louis' keeper, the only one except Aramis ever to see him, was a deaf-mute. Aramis was suddenly anxious to see for himself what lay ahead in the cell. He handed over the royal warrant, his passport in, and offered himself to be searched. 

"The keeper let me know - as best he could, anyway," the governor said, patting down Aramis' clothes. "When the food wasn't touched again today. He's a big brute, doesn't stand any nonsense. He pulled him up, probably shook him about a bit. But … he felt his hands, do you see? And they were hot. It panicked him. Afraid of the plague, I suppose. I wasn't sure if His Majesty should be informed …"

"Thank you. I'll take care of it now." The words concealed a stab of concern. The governor subsided, reassured. Aramis took the deaf-mute's keys and lantern. He opened the first of the three massive doors between him and Louis' cell. Behind him, he heard the governor start up the stairs to his rooms. Abandoning his pretense of calm, he hurried through the other gates. This was bound to be a trick. Louis was intelligent; deceit was second nature to him, and he had nothing else to do now but scheme. But all the same, what if …?

The final gate behind him, Aramis stood at the door to the cell. Last time he'd stood here, Louis' screams of defiance had rung in his ears. Today, there was only silence. Peering in through the sliding hatch, he made out a figure prostrate on the bed in the wintry gloom. He unlocked the door. If Louis heard him, he gave no sign. Aramis set the lantern down on the table and cautiously approached the bed. 

"Louis." No reply. Louder: "Louis!" Still nothing. He reached down and shook Louis' shoulder, gently at first, then harder. Not even a flicker. Aramis picked up one of the hands lying limp on the bed. "God!" He snatched his hand away, convinced. Impossible to see Louis' face, of course, but his hand burned with fever. As Aramis watched, a savage fit of shivering seized him; his teeth chattered within the mask. As suddenly as it had come, the shivering passed and Louis lay still once more. 

Aramis snatched up the lantern and turned rapidly back to the door. On the threshold, he hesitated, his conscience pricking, and looked once more at the figure on the bed. Some priestly word of comfort seemed called for. But Louis was clearly beyond hearing. A crumpled blanket lay on the floor near the bed. Aramis retrieved it and tucked it loosely around Louis. He sketched a hasty cross above the mask. Then he hurried out the door, locking it behind him, and back through the long procession of gates to the waiting carriage.

*********************************************************** 

Philippe dismissed his attendants and listened gravely to the news Aramis brought. Then he sent for the others: his mother, the Queen; André, Captain of the Musketeers since D'Artagnan's death; and Athos and Porthos.

Waiting, Aramis watched Philippe covertly. His plan had succeeded beyond his expectations. In the time since Philippe had become king, the boy had grown daily in maturity and confidence. Much of it, Aramis thought, was due to Athos. The period of seclusion, now almost finished, had helped, too. Since Christine's death the king had become a virtual recluse, ostensibly from unaccustomed guilt and shock over his own role in the tragedy. That had given Philippe the time he needed to start learning to be king. Soon he would resume normal court life.

Ten minutes later they were all assembled in the salon. Philippe nodded to Aramis. "Tell them what you told me." 

"Louis has a fever. He's unconscious. It looks serious to me." Aramis paused at a gasp from the queen. "As I see it," he went on, "we have two options. We can do nothing, let God decide what happens. Or we can take him out and look after him."

"Take him out? You must be joking!" Athos' face was a study in mingled outrage and disbelief. 

"I think we must." Aramis was adamant. "If we leave him there, he'll die. It needn't be for long. Just till he recovers." Or dies, he thought. 

Porthos curled a sardonic lip; Louis' health was of less than compelling concern to him. But he said nothing, awaiting Philippe's decision. André's response was less easy to gauge. He stood with his eyes fixed on Aramis, shoulders tense. His hands gripped his heavy sword belt. Beside him, Anne stared over at where Philippe and Aramis stood.

In the fading light, Philippe's face was unreadable. "You're sure it's not a trick?" His voice was neutral, but not suspicious. Until a few days ago, Philippe had been wary of Aramis, unable despite everything to trust him as he did the others. He'd realized long since that if Aramis hadn't needed him, he'd still be rotting in prison, like Louis now. Aramis' expressed wish to continue visiting the prisoner hadn't done much to help, either. But then Aramis had proved his loyalty beyond question when Louis' secret knowledge had threatened Philippe's safety even from within the prison. The shadow of doubt was gone from Philippe's eyes now, as they rested on the priest.

"I'm sure." Aramis spoke earnestly. "He couldn't feign that fever." From the corner of his eye he saw the queen recoil at his words.

"What do you think, André?" Philippe swung round and addressed the captain of his guard. André regarded him with his customary half-reluctant deference. He struggled with a reply. They all knew his conscience had troubled him deeply since the night when, mad with grief, he had raised his hand and his sword against Louis in the terrible aftermath of D'Artagnan's death. Devoutly Catholic, André had agonized over breaking the oath he had sworn to serve and protect the king. Philippe might be Louis' twin, but the anointed king lay incarcerated in the Bastille, and André had helped put him there. 

"It's not for me to say, Sire." He sought refuge in formality. 

"But you have an opinion, don't you?" Philippe approached and stood in front of him. "You wouldn't just let him die?"

"I … "André stopped, unable to meet Philippe's eyes. " No, I wouldn't."

"That's what I thought," Philippe said, with a faint smile. "But I have to ask you: if we let him out, would you guard him well? and keep it quiet?" 

Philippe could order André killed to ensure his silence. Louis would have done it without a second thought, but Philippe merely asked for his promise. André appeared surprisingly affected by the simple honor of the request. "You have my word, Sire." He bowed. Philippe nodded, satisfied.

The queen spoke. Her bearing was regal, as always, but her twisting hands belied her anxiety. "Philippe -- please. He's my son. Let me see him." 

Son, spare your brother. The echoes of that earlier night were not lost on Philippe. He reached out and drew her close." Don't worry, Mother, I'll do what I can for him. But Louis feels you betrayed him. It's too dangerous for you to see him yet." Releasing her, he turned back to Aramis. "What did you have in mind?"

Aramis looked at Porthos. "You have estates near here, don't you? Would one of them do?"

Porthos' brow furrowed as he thought about it. Then his face lit up. "Yes. I own a place in the hills a few hours away, with an old hunting lodge in the forest. It's isolated enough, ten miles from the nearest village. We could use that." 

"Nobody would know if we took Louis there? Nobody would see him?" Aramis hesitated, then went on firmly. "See him without the mask, I mean. It would have to come off for a while." He glanced at Philippe to see his reaction. Philippe nodded, seemingly undisturbed by the idea. Perhaps, Aramis thought, he had his own memories of illness. 

"This lodge…Is anyone there now?" Philippe asked Porthos.

"No. It hasn't been used for a year or so."

"How soon could it be ready?"

"Tomorrow, if we leave tonight. It wouldn't take long to get it cleaned up."

"Good man. But no servants. The fewer who know, the better." Philippe smiled at him apologetically. "Kitchen work for you, I'm afraid, and no pretty girls. I'm sorry."

Porthos frowned. Domestic service was not among his talents. "Well, but … even on campaign …," he began. Then he rallied and mustered a smile. "All right. Fewer tongues to wag." 

"You realize what that means, though?" Aramis said to the room at large. "We'll have to do it all ourselves. Cooking, cleaning, the lot." The others nodded glumly. Only Athos seemed not to care. 

Philippe turned to Aramis again. "So you take him to this lodge. What then?" 

"I'd take Jean and Gerard." Philippe knew them. The two Jesuits had cared for him on the day of his release: Jean, the gentle, gifted healer, wise beyond his years; Gerard his devoted helper, taciturn but kind. "They're at the monastery here in Paris. They could be ready in an hour or so, once you give the word. André could organize a carriage. We can take Louis tonight, while it's dark, and be at the lodge by – mid-morning?" Porthos nodded. Aramis' tone became urgent. "But we have to know now. Will you give us your warrant?"

Philippe looked at his mother. The lines of tension around her eyes and mouth decided him. "All right. You seem to have thought of everything. But you'll watch him closely? And bring us regular reports?" He took a small key from a chain around his neck and gave it to Aramis, folding it into his hand. "Guard this well." No need to ask what it unlocked. Aramis nodded and tucked the key into a hidden pocket in his cassock. 

Leaving the others by the fire, Philippe and Aramis walked over to a small writing desk near the window. Aramis sat down and, taking paper and quill, drew up the warrant for Louis' temporary release. When he had finished, he stood up and watched while Philippe signed it with a flourish. He'd grown much better at forging Louis' signature. 

Aramis hesitated. Better to speak his mind now, perhaps, than risk trouble later. "Philippe … if we all go, you'll be alone here. For however long it takes. Are you ready for that?"

"I think it would work." Philippe looked at him thoughtfully. "I know enough now of the everyday things to pass for Louis. And my mother's here."

"What if Athos stayed?"

"That would be better, of course, for me. But you'd need him, surely? Could you spare him?"

"The question is, could you? We could watch Louis as well with five as six." He moved to his real concern. "The thing is, Louis hurt him worst of us all. To ask Athos to help him now might be too much to expect. Love your enemies … it's not realistic in this case" 

"You're right." No question whose needs took priority with Philippe. "I'll ask him to stay. I'd like that anyway." He couldn't quite disguise his relief at the prospect. And he seemed moved by Aramis' concern for his old friend. Philippe seldom initiated any physical contact with Aramis, but now he reached out and clasped his hand briefly. 

Aramis rejoined the others to talk about logistics. Philippe sat on at the desk, rubbing his back surreptitiously. He still found royal posture a strain.

"God bless you, Philippe." He looked up, startled. His mother stood beside him, her eyes soft. She bent and brushed his cheek with her lips. "I'm going to pray for Louis." To the chapel, she meant, where she used to meet D'Artagnan. Pausing to exchange a word with the group by the fire, the queen left the salon. The doors closed softly behind her.

Philippe sat toying with the quill, lost in thought. Athos left the others to their plans and drifted across the huge room to stand beside him, staring out the window at the park. He tried without success to keep his voice unconcerned. "Philippe. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" He turned to look at Philippe. "This is bound to be a trick."

Philippe glanced up at him. "Aramis says he's sick. He's the only one who's seen him. Don't you trust his judgment?"

"In most things. But in Louis' case, he isn't seeing clearly." Athos scratched irritably at the side of his neck. "You don't know him like I do. It isn't wise to get in his way." D'Artagnan did, he thought with a twinge of pain, and look what happened.

Philippe sat back in his chair and looked consideringly at Athos. "It's true he feels he has a duty. He feels … I don't know, responsible for him somehow. Because he's a priest, I suppose." Neither of them really understood why Aramis continued to visit Louis, with Philippe's reluctant permission.

"If Louis died, there'd be an end to it." A flat statement.

Philippe hesitated. "Yes, there would. But he's my brother. I can't pretend he isn't. I have to give him a chance." He reached out for Athos' hand. "Athos, I value your advice. But in this one thing… forgive me." Something of the old uncertainty appeared in his eyes. 

Athos moved quickly to allay it. "You're king now, Philippe. Do as you think best." Philippe smiled at him gratefully. They'd grown steadily closer since the chateau. Athos watched with pride as Philippe took more and more of his own decisions. Philippe had chosen not to follow his advice once or twice before in minor matters. But this time Louis was involved. Everything was dangerous where he was concerned, and Athos was determined Philippe would not fall into his hands again. He said quietly, "You don't need to worry. I'll be watching Louis all the time."

Philippe, mindful of Aramis' warning, spoke carefully. "No. I'd rather you stayed here at court." 

"You want me to stay?" Athos let go of Philippe's hand, unsure what lay behind the request. He stared out at the trees, ghostly in the gathering dusk. Philippe didn't trust him around Louis, most likely. That didn't really surprise him Still, if he stayed, Philippe would not be alone among the wolves … He gathered his thoughts and turned back to Philippe. "Of course. I'm at your service." His voice was steady, but he was deeply worried. If Louis outwitted the others and escaped, Philippe would be in danger. 

Philippe stood up and put his arm around Athos' shoulders for a moment. "The others can go. But I need you here with me." He dropped his arm, but stayed close by. 

Athos looked at him thoughtfully. Philippe did still rely on his counsel, it was true. That wasn't the whole story, he thought, but it would do. "As you wish." They smiled at each other. Then Athos bowed and withdrew through a nearby door to wait for Aramis in an alcove in the long gallery outside. Guards were stationed at regular intervals along the walls. Further down the gallery, a small group of servants embarked on lighting the first of the candles against the evening shadows. 

A few minutes later, Aramis, warrant in hand, came out the main door of the salon and walked towards him. Athos gestured and pulled him into the alcove, out of hearing of the guards.

"The king's asked me to stay." Too dangerous to say "Philippe" aloud. He looked at Aramis suspiciously, wondering how much of Philippe's request to impute to him. It would be just like Aramis to have engineered this situation. Athos didn't like feeling he'd been manipulated for his own good, however pure the motives.

"I know. He needs you. It's better that way." A bland reply. Athos couldn't fault it. But he was oppressed by a sense of danger looming, danger he would be powerless to prevent if he stayed at court. Frustration made him terse.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing? You've let yourself be hoodwinked by … the other one. That puts all of them in danger." And him too, but he didn't mention that.

Aramis looked at him abstractedly. "You're worried, I can see that. But there's no need. Believe me, he's too sick to be a threat." He peered out along the gallery, clearly anxious to be off. 

Athos laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "If the king is harmed because of this …" He couldn't finish the sentence. He'd said nearly the same thing to D'Artagnan once, about Raoul, and now Raoul was dead.

"You haven't seen the other one. I have," Aramis reassured him. "I know what I'm doing. The king's not in danger. Only him. "

"Let him take his chances," Athos said. "Or look after him if you must, but don't take him out." 

"I'll do the best I can for him," Aramis said slowly. Athos had his full attention now. "No matter what I think of him personally, I have to. Remember who he is." D'Artagnan's name hung unspoken between them. The silence lengthened. The fire in Athos' eyes slowly died away. Dropping his hand, he nodded and turned back towards the salon.

André, on his way to the barracks, stopped beside them. He frowned as he caught the last words. "Aramis is right." Stepping into the alcove, he lowered his voice. "We do have to remember who he is. He's the king." Even more quietly, he said, "We swore an oath to him once. For me, it's still in force, no matter who else we serve." To Aramis, he said, "I'll have a carriage there at midnight, in the lower courtyard." With a parting nod to Athos, he swung off down the gallery, his uniform immaculate in the candlelight. 

Athos turned back to Aramis. Their eyes met. "He worries me," Athos said slowly.

Aramis nodded. "He's troubled enough about Philippe, despite the blood tie. If he knew whose son he really was, we might lose him altogether."

"Pity. He's a good man." Athos stared after André. "That conscience of his is dangerous. Don't leave him alone with Louis once he's on the mend." 

Aramis pulled on his gloves, all business again. "Don't worry, I won't." He clapped Athos on the shoulder. "Well, I ought to get going. Look to the king". He walked off, his thoughts clearly already on the task ahead. Athos, filled with foreboding, looked after him. Outside sources posed little risk, he knew: tongues might wag in the capital about the absence of the Musketeers' captain and two of the royal council, but few would openly question the king's business. The real danger, if it came, would come from Louis himself. Athos felt the nagging fear for Philippe, always in the back of his mind, grow stronger. 

************************************************************************************************

The little cavalcade rumbled to a halt in front of the lodge. Aramis and Porthos stepped down from the carriage into the fresh chill air of the forest, stretching cramped limbs. They had stopped only once, at a prearranged rendezvous in a dark glade, to transfer the unconscious Louis to the wagon. A few minutes later the high-sided wagon creaked into the clearing behind them. André rode in after it, dismounting beside a large tree which grew not far from the door of the lodge. He looped the reins of his horse over a low-growing branch. 

Jean and Gerard swung down from the wagon. Like the others, they scanned the area with watchful eyes, then went round to the rear to fold back the cover. Gerard would have begun to ease the litter out at once, but Jean stopped him. "Better get things ready first. He'll be all right here for a bit. André, will you watch him?" André nodded, and took up his station by the cart. 

Porthos opened the heavy door of the lodge with a massive iron key and led the way inside. With great sweeps of his arm, he indicated where things were. "Hell's teeth, it's musty!" He sneezed. "Get the windows open." They hastened to open the heavy wooden shutters.

"That's better. Now - upstairs, the bedrooms. Downstairs, the kitchen, the big room and another room at the back. Brother Jean - you'll want him upstairs?"

"No." Jean looked around. "Down here would be better. Near the kitchen and the well." He moved over to the door of the room at the back and looked inside. "This will do. It's fairly big, and it's got a good fireplace. We'll sweep the floors and clean it up a bit. Gerard, check the chimney flue, will you? Porthos, we'll need a bed for him down here." 

"What about you and Gerard?"

"Put a pallet in the kitchen. One of us can sleep there while the other watches Louis."

Some time later, Porthos and Aramis, with much swearing and banging, dragged one of the heavy beds down the stairs into the sickroom. Jean moved briskly around the room, making up the bed with sheets brought from the monastery. He lit a fire with fallen branches gathered quickly from the clearing and laid out his medical supplies on a small table by the bed. The wind brought in through the windows a tang of pine and the scent of early snow from the far-off mountains. 

Gerard went out to the clearing to start on a proper supply of wood for the fires. He paused by the wagon now and then to check on Louis. Until the mask came off, he could do little for him but moisten his lips through the opening around his mouth. Once Louis was settled, Gerard would go off into the forest to set traps for hares. Farm-raised, he had been manservant to a high-ranking army officer for many years before he entered the monastery. He had an endless fund of practical knowledge. 

"I'll take over now." Aramis approached André, who was standing impatiently beside the wagon, eager to be useful. "Has he moved at all?" André shook his head. "Good. You unload the carriage. We'll have to wait till he's out of here before we can get to the sacks." André nodded and moved over to the carriage. He began to unload the large bundles strapped to its roof. Aramis checked Louis. No change, that he could see.

Porthos came out of the kitchen door and went to uncover the well. Satisfied the water was pure, the big man primed the antiquated pump and began filling buckets of water for Jean. Despite Porthos' gloom at the lack of servants, he was always reliable in a crisis. He flashed a rueful grin at Aramis as he staggered, laden, back inside.

Soon after noon, the lodge was ready. Porthos, Aramis and André carried Louis' litter inside and placed it on the floor. At Jean's nod, Aramis knelt beside Louis with the key Philippe had given him and unlocked the mask. Louis shifted restlessly, but seemed unaware of its going. His face, overgrown with beard, was flushed with fever. With a grimace of distaste, Aramis took the mask to wash in the kitchen. He stored it out of sight.

Porthos lifted Louis with a grunt. He would have placed him on the bed but Jean held up his hand. "Put him on the table. The bed is clean. We'll wash him first." Grumbling, Porthos complied. Jean and Gerard deftly stripped Louis' filthy clothes away. Jean hurried to the kitchen for water heated over the fire, returning with bucket, basin and linen towels. Gently the two Jesuits bathed Louis' feverish body. When they had finished, Gerard brought razor and jug to shave him. Twenty minutes later, Jean, satisfied at last, nodded to Porthos to lift Louis on to the bed and settled the covers around him. While Gerard scrubbed the table clean, Jean settled down to the serious business of nursing.

Porthos went out to the kitchen. Aramis and André were there before him, helping themselves to bread and cheese from the saddlebags. A jug of wine stood on the table. Porthos poured some gratefully. They heard Gerard leave the lodge, going off to lay his traps. Porthos searched among the sacks unloaded from the wagon until he found the flour and vegetables they had brought from Paris. Aramis stared at him in amazement as he sat down at the table, carrots in one hand, knife in the other. Porthos stared back, daring him to laugh. If Philippe wanted him to cook, his resolute demeanor said, then by God, he would cook. 

Aramis wisely decided against a comment. He finished his simple meal and sat down to help with the vegetables. "What's the flour for?"

"Gerard said he'd teach us to make bread." Aramis nodded. Their supply of fresh bread from Paris would not last long. Porthos continued, "We'll have to wait till he comes back. It's too late today, anyway, he said. It takes a while to rise, or something, and the fires aren't ready." 

André leaned against the dresser, watching them. He took up the conversation Porthos' appearance had interrupted. 

"But if he pulls through, what then?" He seemed troubled. "He's bound to be in a rage, with good reason. And we bundle him back to the Bastille? No matter what he's done, he's still the king, and we've committed treason." His voice sharpened. "You're a priest. Doesn't that bother you at all?"

Aramis paused in his chopping and looked up at André. "You've seen the change in the country over the last few months. The food distributed, the riots stopped. Surely that's a good thing?" Porthos grunted assent, his eyes on his hands, careful not to cut his fingers. He was more at home with swords than knives.

André shrugged. He scuffed his boot on the floor, seemingly fascinated by the small crust of mud on the toe. "I know all that. Of course I'm glad about it. But still - we swore the oath to Louis, not Philippe. He wasn't a good king, I grant you that, but God should judge him, not us. I can't rationalize that away like you can."

"Sometimes we have to choose the lesser of two evils," Aramis said slowly. He looked away, pierced by a memory - it had not always been the lesser he had chosen. "That's why God gives us reason. To think things through and make a decision. We have to do what we think is right." He went back to his task, his voice brisk. "We'll do the best we can for Louis. But if he shouldn't pull through, there'll only be one of them. Would that ease your conscience?"

"God forgive you for suggesting it!" André's face was pale, his voice shocked. Aramis sighed inwardly. Not a Gascon, but as stubborn as D'Artagnan in his way. He would have to watch André. Athos was right. André could not be left alone with Louis; his conscience was their weak spot. Meanwhile, they needed more wood. He sent André out to see to it.

*************************************************************

Brother Jean had unconventional ideas about medicine. Raised in a Jesuit orphanage after plague wiped out his family, he entered the order young and devoted himself to the care of the sick. His natural gifts soon brought him notice, and he found himself all but running the infirmary before very long. Now, at thirty, he was famed in the order as a healer. God himself worked through his hands, some said. Jean didn't know whether this was so. He was not a mystic - far from it. He only knew that sometimes, in certain situations, his touch helped those who were sick. The other brothers in the monastery had good cause to be grateful for his gifts. So did those from outside who brought their ailments to his door. From time to time monks from other Jesuit communities arrived at the monastery seeking his aid. Sometimes they went away healed. 

Jean knelt in prayer, gathering himself for the task ahead. His devotions complete, he sat for a while by Louis' bed, considering his patient. Louis was extremely ill, that much was clear. Whether Jean's healing skills would prevail against such a fever, only God could tell. Just as important would be the personal factor. Jean knew who Louis was and what he had done. The young man in the bed had sustained a devastating shock, wrenched from his pinnacle and cut off from human contact. None of it was undeserved, but its impact must surely have been fierce. If Louis were to pull through, Jean thought, he would have to find a way to let him know he was no longer alone. 

The long vigil began. Louis tossed restlessly or shivered in the grip of fever; sometimes he lay so still he barely seemed to breathe. The two monks worked ceaselessly to bring the fever down, sponging his burning body and cooling his forehead with compresses. Sometimes Jean rubbed his back and limbs with long, slow sweeps of his hands. Aramis, looking on, was skeptical. "What are you doing?" he asked. "He has a fever, for heaven's sake. He doesn't need his back rubbed."

Jean paused, but kept a hand on Louis. "He can't hear me or speak to me, but he might feel my touch. It's like a laying on of hands, in a way. I don't know why, but it seems to help. Sometimes, anyway." Aramis remained unconvinced; Jean's approach was a long way from the purges and bloodletting the doctors favored. It was true, though, that after these sessions Louis seemed calmer; his head tossed less wildly on the pillow, and the incoherent babbling trailed away for a time. And it was because of Jean's history as a successful healer that Aramis had involved him in the first place. He would wait and see. 

For five more days the fever persisted. Aramis returned to Paris twice in that time to give his report, leaving at dawn and returning late at night. Each time he rode back into the clearing, exhausted, he expected to find that Louis was dead.

"Has he eaten anything?" he asked, the morning after his second return. 

"No." Jean held a cup to Louis' lips during a rare period of quiet, without success. "Just some broth now and then, that's all." The days of fasting had taken their toll; Louis was appallingly thin. His cheekbones stood out sharply in his face. 

Not long afterwards, the delirium returned. Louis shouted an incoherent string of words. "What did he say?" Aramis asked suddenly, looking up from where he sat at the table. "I thought he said 'Christine.'" 

"He did." Jean glanced across at him. "Who is she? He calls for her now and then. Is it someone important to him?"

"She's dead," Aramis said heavily. "Yes, you could say she was important to him. In his own way. Has he said anything else?" 

"He calls for his mother sometimes. And there was something about D'Artagnan," Jean said. "I couldn't catch it clearly, but whatever it was upset him quite a bit. Almost as if he thought he was a priest. Father D'Artagnan, he called him."

Aramis stiffened. He had flung the truth about Louis' birth at him in a moment of anger on his first visit to the Bastille. Often since then he'd regretted the impulse, but it was done. Louis, of course, had refused to believe it. Aramis scrutinized Jean closely. The monk seemed not to realize what his words meant. "Fever does strange things," he said, relaxing. "He's wandering. Mixed D'Artagnan up with me, I suppose." Jean nodded absently, busy with a fresh compress, and the subject was dropped.

That night, the battle seemed lost. Louis moaned with pain. The fever showed no signs of abating. "He won't last till morning," Aramis said to Gerard. "He looks too weak." He saw himself riding back to the capital with the news. 

"It's in God's hands now. And Jean's," Gerard agreed gravely. Aramis crossed himself. It would take a miracle, he thought, and they had used up their full share of those lately. He held out little hope for another.

He prepared to settle in for a deathbed watch, but Jean sent him away. "Get some sleep. We'll call you if we need you." Nettled, Aramis began to argue. He as priest should sit the vigil. But Jean was firm; he would deal with this alone. Aramis bowed to his wishes and withdrew to his room to pray. André, he knew, was doing the same. Only Porthos seemed unconcerned.

Around two in the morning, unable to sleep, Aramis looked in on the room where Louis lay. He paused, eyes adjusting slowly to the firelight, struck by the scene before him. Jean sat on the bed, cradling the comatose Louis in his arms like a child. The monk's eyes were closed; his lips moved soundlessly. Gerard knelt in silent prayer on the other side of the bed. His head turned at Aramis' entrance. 

For a moment, Aramis thought the end had come. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire. Gerard's eyes met his. Curiously reluctant to break the silence, Aramis mimed a question - the last rites? Should he fetch his oil and stole? Gerard shook his head. Aramis hesitated, then went on his way to the outside latrine. Perhaps the cold would clear his head.

A little later, shivering, he came back into the lodge and went to the kitchen to warm a cup of wine. After a while, Gerard came in to join him. Aramis poured another cup for him. "What's he doing?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Just trying to let him know there's someone with him. That's all he can do now." Gerard took a grateful sip of the hot wine. The kitchen was cold; Aramis rose and fanned the embers in the hearth into life.

"That's the end, then." Once before, Jean had wrought a healing change in one of D'Artagnan's sons, freeing Philippe from more than the prison stench as he gently sluiced away the filth of years. Perhaps it had been too much to hope he might also pull his brother back from the brink.

"Don't be too sure. Sometimes it is, yes. Other times, if God wills, it's as if …" Gerard paused, at a loss to explain." I don't know, it's as if some of Jean's own strength passes into them. Maybe they would have survived anyway. Maybe their illness had run its course. Or maybe… God heals through Jean. Does it matter?" No, Aramis thought, it didn't. The only thing that mattered was the result. 

When he looked into the bedroom again later, Jean was sitting on his usual chair beside the bed, wringing out a cloth in a basin of water. Louis lay quiet on the pillows. He seemed calmer. Aramis drew near to the bed and looked more closely. Louis' face was still flushed, but the dew of perspiration on his forehead had not been there before. The fever, it appeared, might finally have broken.

Later, it was clear that the crisis had indeed passed. Aramis, duty-bound, gave thanks to God. He had been certain Louis would die. Stronger men than Louis succumbed to fevers in less time, despite - or, some said, because of - the efforts of the best doctors of the day. Had he witnessed a miracle in the night? Or was it simply true, as Jean believed, that the warmth of a human touch could anchor a soul to life? Aramis didn't know, but he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He wouldn't have to tell Louis' mother he was dead just yet.

*********************************************************************************

Next morning, Louis seemed much improved. He was still unconscious, but not delirious, and his skin felt cooler to the touch. Jean appeared sanguine about his prospects. The routine continued unchanged in the sickroom, but Aramis, who had sat there all the rest of the night, sensed an indefinable lightening of the atmosphere. He stretched uncomfortably on the window seat, trying to ease cramped muscles in his back.

"Aramis!" Jean called from beside the bed. He seemed more than usually buoyant, apparently unaffected by his lack of sleep. "Would you like your back rubbed?" He grinned expansively. Gerard chuckled softly by the fire.

Aramis smiled back at Jean. "Save it till I need it. I'll let you know when that is." Given time and solitude, he would think and pray about what he'd seen in the night. For now, he enjoyed the mild joke. He stood up and went out of the room to get breakfast for the monks. 

Around midday, once more dozing in Louis' room, Aramis was startled to hear hooves outside in the clearing. Snatching up his sword, he sprinted for the door, nearly colliding with Porthos on the way out. Outside, André raced from the stables to the front of the lodge. The three surged into the clearing together, drawing a sardonic bark of laughter from the rider observing them wryly.

Athos dismounted. "It took you long enough to get here." He tethered his horse to a bush.

Aramis lowered his sword and straightened his clothing. "What are you doing here? I thought Philippe needed you at court."

Athos grinned. "He did. Or he said he did. But you're wanted urgently yourself. I'll stay here." He held out a letter to Aramis. "It's all in here."

"Philippe asked you to come?" Aramis took the letter. He could barely conceal his surprise.

Athos shrugged. "He couldn't send anyone else." Of course. "I gave him my word not to hurt Louis. We agreed I'd stay till this is over." He didn't elaborate. "Where is he?" Athos pushed past Aramis and went into the lodge, the others hard on his heels. He looked around and started towards the stairs, but Aramis stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"He's down here. In that room over there." He gestured towards the door standing open at the rear of the room. "You're sure you're up to this?" Athos nodded bleakly. He turned and walked rapidly towards the door. Entering the other room, he gave Jean a hard stare before clasping his hand briefly in greeting, and approached the bed. 

For a few moments, he stared down at the haggard face on the pillow. Then he turned to Aramis. "All right. He is sick." Aramis relaxed a little. Athos wouldn't harm Louis, he was sure. For one thing, he'd given his word to Philippe. For another, Louis was helpless. Athos was staring fixedly at Louis again. His lips thinned. He turned abruptly on his heel and went out to the kitchen. Aramis followed him out.

Athos seemed deeply affected. He hadn't seen Louis since the night D'Artagnan died. Pale with barely suppressed emotion, he paced the length of the room. Gerard, roused from his pallet by his arrival, took one look at his face and left. 

Aramis stood by a chair, watching. "Can you handle this?"

"Shouldn't you be on your way?" Athos evaded the question.

"Yes. But I'm worried about you." 

Athos turned sharply. The words tumbled from him in a rush. "Why are you doing this? He'd do just as well in prison."

Aramis looked at him somberly. "I promised Philippe too." He fidgeted with a button on his shirt for a moment, choosing his words carefully before he went on. "But there's something else as well. I don't expect you to understand, but … it has to do with redemption. Mine and his, I suppose. I can't help thinking of what D'Artagnan said. Any man can be better, remember? Even Louis." His voice dropped, and he glanced away at the fire. "We all need redeeming, Athos. Even me." A heartbeat or two of silence. Then, reluctantly, slipping the knife in gently, Aramis added, "Even you." His eyes rose and held Athos'. Athos stared back, brought up short by the memory of a riverbank long ago. His eyes dropped and he nodded slowly. The silence lengthened between them.

Aramis broke it. He said softly, "You won't hurt him, then? I want your word on it."

Athos shook off his memories. He said brusquely, "You have it. He'll be safe enough - for now." Aramis believed him without question. Nevertheless, he determined to waste no time getting back. Athos saw him off and busied himself settling in, his demeanor grim. 

Two days later, Aramis returned, late at night. He was close-mouthed about the nature of the emergency; a Huguenot matter, the others gathered from the little he would say. He went straight to the sickroom.

"How is he?"

"No worse than when you left," Jean assured him. "He's not awake yet."

"Shouldn't he be, by now? It's three days since the fever broke."

"Don't worry. He's sleeping it off. He'll wake up soon."

"You seem very sure of it."

"I am. Wait and see."

It was not until the next morning that Louis stirred. Aramis went to the sickroom after breakfast. He stood beside the bed, looking Louis over in the light of day. Satisfied, he took a seat at the window and stared out at the forest, letting his mind range back over his conversation with Philippe. Behind him, Gerard went into the kitchen to sleep. 

Some time later, when the sun was high, Aramis heard Jean speak. His quiet voice sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room. "Good morning." Aramis looked around, puzzled. The others were outside in the clearing; he could see them from where he sat, butchering a deer under Gerard's expert instruction. None of them had come back into the lodge. But Jean was talking to Louis, who lay with his head turned toward him. Craning his neck, Aramis could just make out that Louis' eyes were open and fixed on Jean. 

"Who …?" Louis' voice was no more than a croak. He stopped, unable to continue, then seemed to gather strength. "Who the devil are you?" 

Jean leaned forward and moistened the fever-cracked lips with a wet linen towel. "All in good time. You've been very ill. Just lie still." He touched Louis' flushed face gently. Louis shivered at the touch but subsided, dazed. Suddenly he seemed to realize he was no longer in the Bastille. He peered through puffy eyes at the wall near the bed, so different from the stone walls of the cell, and at Jean's benign face smiling down at him. Incredulously, he raised a shaking hand to his head. No metal. Only the softness of skin and hair. 

"That's right, it's gone." Jean said. "For the moment, anyway. Do you want something to drink?"

Louis nodded painfully. His head ached badly. Jean half-filled a cup from the jug and supported his head while he drank. " Not too fast now." Heedless of the warning, Louis gulped the tea like a man dying of thirst. His stomach rejected the unaccustomed fluid and he retched violently into the bowl Jean hastily snatched up from the floor. The spasm over, he lay back gasping. Jean mopped his face with the towel. "Next time, take it slowly." Louis closed his eyes wearily. 

Aramis stood up and approached the bed. At the sound of his footsteps, Louis opened his eyes again and turned his head. He froze as he recognized Aramis. "You!"

"Good morning." Aramis said quietly. "You're looking better." Louis scowled weakly at him, ignoring the greeting. His disposition, Aramis thought, showed no change. Still, why would it?

Jean lifted Louis and propped him higher against the pillows, ignoring his ineffectual protest. Aramis came closer. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Louis' eyes flashed at the impertinence. "Are you going to tell me where I am?" A hoarse whisper.

Aramis observed him dispassionately. "You're in a hunting lodge, it doesn't matter where. You came close to dying. You can thank God and Brother Jean here that you didn't." 

Louis shot Jean a hostile glance. "Traitorous Jesuit scum. Like you." Gerard, coming in just then, rolled his eyes. Louis glared at them all. His mouth set in a sullen line.

"Louis." Aramis waited. "Louis!" Louis would not respond. Aramis could almost hear the drawbridge going up. He stood up with an exasperated click of his tongue. "Suit yourself." He went out to the clearing where the others were still working on the stag. 

"He's awake."

Porthos turned from the carcass. He shrugged. "About time."

André was cutting meat from the bones. He paused. "How does he seem?"

"Weak. And in a filthy temper. But on the mend, I think." André nodded, relieved. He bent slowly back to the carcass.

Athos sat on an old tree stump, sharpening a knife. He looked at André's stiff shoulders, then turned to Aramis. "So. You did it then." His voice was flat.

"Not me." Aramis looked at him. "God, Jean, whatever you like, but not me." Athos continued his task, his face shuttered. Aramis hesitated. Then he turned and went back into the lodge.

Louis was still awake. He eyed him balefully. "What are you doing here anyway, you filthy murderer?" 

Aramis motioned to Jean. "Brother Jean. A moment alone, if you don't mind." Jean nodded and left the room. Aramis turned back to Louis, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "Murderer?" 

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. You killed François de Pons. You or one of your turncoat friends." François, one of Louis' old cronies at court, had begun to suspect the truth about Philippe. By blackmailing the prison governor, he'd discovered where Louis was held, and had been on his way to free him one night not long ago when he'd been mysteriously murdered, his body dumped into the Seine. Nobody knew who'd killed him, though Louis obviously believed it was Aramis.

Aramis shook his head. "We had nothing to do with that. Upon my honor." He'd wondered at the time whether Athos had had a hand in it, but Athos had sworn he hadn't. Aramis believed him. François had been a fool to be out alone so late  
in the unlit Paris streets, where footpads and cut-throats roamed looking  
for unwary victims. The capital had been plagued with murderous attacks in  
recent months; François had doubtless fallen foul of just such a predator.

Louis essayed a scoff. "Upon your honor! Now there's a laugh. You'd do anything to keep your secret, do you think I don't know that? You murdered François when he found out where I was." He was tiring fast. He continued with an effort, talking almost to himself. "I was so nearly free ..." 

"I give you my word," Aramis said. "Whoever killed de Pons, it wasn't one of us." Louis stared at him, his eyes hard. He slumped back against the pillows, too tired to argue. But not convinced, Aramis knew. He went to the door to call Jean in.

The day wore slowly on. Louis drifted in and out of sleep. Around three o'clock, Aramis realized with a start that Louis was watching him. From time to time when he looked up from the table he found the cold gray eyes resting on him. Once he stopped what he was doing and approached the bed. To his quiet "What is it?" Louis made no reply, only turned his head away to stare out the window. Aramis shrugged. Let him think about it all he liked.

Outside, the world wheeled towards winter. The few remaining leaves on the trees near the lodge shivered in the icy wind. Louis' mood seemed to match the dark, forbidding pines on the ridge. He would not eat, though Jean urged him. Nor did he speak. There were no more outbursts of spleen, but Aramis knew better than to relax on that account. 

Towards four, the door opened suddenly and Athos came in. "Aramis, André wants …" He broke off, seeing Louis awake again, then went on, "André wants you at the well."

"Later," Aramis temporized. 

"He says now. The pump's broken, it has to be fixed before dark."

"Get Porthos."

"He's out checking the traps."

Aramis sighed impatiently "Oh, very well. Are you coming?"

"In a minute." Athos' eyes hardened. "I want a word with Louis." Aramis looked at him in unspoken reminder. Athos inclined his head in acknowledgment. Aramis hurried out, taking care to leave the door ajar behind him.

Louis had stiffened when Athos came in, and turned even paler. His eyes glittered with hatred. "I might have known you'd be here somewhere, you bastard!" The last time they'd met, Athos had nearly broken his arm forcing him into Philippe's clothes. The memory of Athos' knife at his throat had troubled his dreams many a night since then. 

Athos moved closer. "Philippe sent me." Louis' mouth tightened: Philippe gave the orders now. "I'll be watching you. Try anything, and you'll be sorry."

Louis jerked upright. "Traitor!" The word burst from him with the release of pent-up fury. "You used to serve me. Now you want to kill me."

"You have that effect on people, it's true."

Louis groped wildly for something to throw. His hand closed on Jean's missal, left beside the bed. He hurled the book at Athos, who caught it easily and put it on the table. Jean laid an admonishing hand on Louis' arm. He shook it off angrily, glaring at Athos with helpless rage. The outburst had exhausted him; he sank back, shaking, against the pillows. Jean moved away to the table to rummage among his flasks.

Louis turned his back on Athos dismissively. His shoulders were stiff with tension. Athos, his point made, smiled grimly and went out to where Aramis and André were working on the pump with Gerard. Aramis ceded his place to him and walked slowly back into the lodge.

**********************************************************************************

Louis was a difficult patient. He felt a keen sense of outrage and victimization. The younger of the Jesuit brothers who tended him seemed determined to make him talk to him. Louis hated him for it. Servants should not speak unbidden to kings.

The day after Louis woke, when he began to take more notice of his surroundings, Jean tried to put a nightshirt on him. He drew the sheet away to do it. With a start, Louis pulled away from him, jerking himself up with difficulty on his elbows. "What are you doing?" He glared at Jean, annoyed by his presumption.

"Jean." André was standing with Aramis by the fire. "Don't touch the king without his permission - it isn't done." Watchful, he moved towards the bed. Louis' eyes rested on André thoughtfully for a moment. André had called him the king. He felt a faint twinge of hope. 

Jean waved André away with a smile and turned back to the bed. "Don't upset yourself, lad." Louis' attention snapped back to Jean. Lad! The Jesuit wasn't much older than he was. He clearly didn't share André's views on protocol. "I just want to make you comfortable. Here." He picked up the nightshirt.

Didn't this monk ever give up? "I don't need your help." Louis snatched the shirt and shrugged into it himself. The small effort wore him out; he lay back limply and allowed Jean to fasten the ties without protest. But he glared truculently at him as the monk moved about the room, straightening the covers, taking away a pile of sweat-stained linen.

Louis was conscious of a prickle of fear always just below the surface. For months now, the touch of others had brought him only pain. And these men hated him because of D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan ... the name was seldom out of his thoughts now. What Aramis said couldn't be true. If it were true, it meant … he pushed the thought away with an unconscious twitch of his arm. He searched back through his memory, looking for some shred of evidence. Nothing. D'Artagnan had watched over his safety; he'd always been there with a word of advice, but that was his job. He was paid to look after me, Louis thought; that's all it was. _It's you I care about._ Unbidden, the words flashed into his mind. He'd accepted them as his due at the time: a soldier's devotion to his king. They couldn't have meant anything else.

Eventually, Jean was satisfied with the room. With one exception. He approached Louis determinedly, comb in hand. Eyeing him, Louis tried to frame a sharp rebuff, but a wave of nausea defeated him. Wincing at the snags, he lay sullenly still and let Jean run the comb through the sweaty tangles of his hair and gently tie it back for him. The Jesuit would not hurt him, he felt suddenly sure. But that didn't mean he'd cooperate.

That evening, the headache returned in force. Jean brought him a bowl of willow-bark tea. Louis peered fretfully at him as he stood beside the bed. 

"For God's sake, leave me alone!" Irritably, he struck the bowl aside, sending the tea flying. Jean's expression did not change. 

"Manners, Louis, manners!" Aramis said reprovingly from his seat at the table, ignoring the glower he earned in return. Gerard, materializing with cloth and bucket, wiped up the mess and took the bowl out to the kitchen. He returned with it refilled and placed it on the table next to the bed.

"Why do that?" Jean sat on the bed, secured both Louis' hands firmly in his, and compelled his attention. "The tea will ease your headache." Furious, Louis tried to pull his hands away, but Jean would not let him. "Louis. Look at me." Louis was angered by the familiar use of his baptismal name. He looked defiantly away. "Look at me!" Jean's tone brooked no argument. Startled, Louis obeyed. "Drink the tea. It will help your headache". A few months earlier, the lash of Louis' tongue would have flayed Jean for his insolence. Now, worn down by illness and solitude and a desperate gnawing fear, he hesitated. The moment passed and with it his chance to assert himself. Jean let go his hands and held the bowl out towards him. 

Louis looked at the bowl. He wanted to smash it away again. But his head pounded, his limbs ached; something about the grave kindness in Jean's look inspired trust. He would not admit, even to himself, how comforting he found the touch of Jean's warm healer's hands. He snorted weakly but sat up and took the tea. Grimacing at the taste, he forced it down and lay back, closing his eyes on their faces. 

The next day, Gerard worked hard in the kitchen all morning. The smell of fresh bread and venison stew wafted tantalizingly through the lodge. At noon, André, Aramis and Porthos converged on the kitchen table, rubbing cold hands in anticipation. Jean took bowls of food into the sickroom for himself and Athos, who was on watch with him, and sat down to eat. Murmuring a quiet grace, he took up his spoon. He checked as he noticed Louis' eyes fasten on his bowl from the bed. 

"Are you hungry?" Louis was, for the first time, but he was reluctant to ask them for anything. He turned his head away without answering.

"Suit yourself," Athos said. "You'll eat soon enough when you are." Louis shot him an ugly look. 

"I'll get you something anyway. Maybe you'll want it later," Jean said. He went to the kitchen for a bowl of bread soaked in broth and set it near the fire to keep warm. Then he sat back down to his own meal.

The room was quiet for a time except for the clink of spoons on bowls and an occasional burst of muffled laughter from the kitchen. A log settled itself more firmly in the fire, sending a tiny shower of sparks cascading onto the hearth. Outside, clouds began to roll across the sun. The smell of the food hung savory in the air. Louis' stomach growled with hunger. Eventually, he could hold out no longer. "You!" he snapped at Jean. Jean put aside his bowl and approached the bed. At the table, Athos raised his eyebrows sardonically.

"You want something?" Jean asked quietly.

"Bring me the bowl." Jean looked at him encouragingly, but did not move. "Didn't you hear me?" Louis snapped. His formidable brows met in a scowl. 

Jean took pity on him. "It's best to ask for what you want politely. You know. Manners." His eyes twinkled. Behind him, Athos suppressed a guffaw.

Louis stared incredulously at Jean. "You presume to lecture the king?" A flush stained his face and neck, deeper than any the fever had ever produced. Even his toes felt hot. He teetered on the verge of an explosion, but in the end, hunger won out. He would not - could not - get up and get the food himself. If Jean would not get it for him, he would go hungry. Hell would freeze over before he'd ask Athos. He slumped against the pillows, hating them both. Then, with a ragged intake of breath, he met Jean's eyes again. "Bring me the bowl." Jean waited, patient. Finally, nearly gagging on the word, "Please." Jean smiled. Then he retrieved the bowl from the hearth and sat down to help Louis eat. 

Regaled with this story later, Aramis smiled to himself, but his eyes grew thoughtful. Thanks to Jean's kindly but firm approach, manners were taking on a whole new dimension for Louis. A little more time might see him whipped into some sort of shape as a human being. It seemed almost a pity they didn't have it.

*****************************************************************

Louis was confused. Angry, but confused. The monk's effrontery was beyond belief. He showed none of the deference due to the king; instead he demanded compliance. Was that because he and his partner, like the others, believed the priest's lie about D'Artagnan? Louis thought about it. Would Aramis have told the others the same thing, or even discussed it with them at all as a ploy? He couldn't afford to spread such a lie too widely; the throne might be destabilized, and his puppet with it. One of this group didn't believe it, at least. The turncoat André had called him the king. Of course Aramis wouldn't lie to André. He needed him loyal; Captain of the Musketeers, too powerful to alienate. So the whole ridiculous story about D'Artagnan, Louis concluded, was no more than a sham to break his own will.

No, the monk wasn't part of it. Then why was he so impertinent? It wasn't lack of respect, exactly, he was always polite. In fact, Jean's generosity of spirit puzzled Louis. Nobody but D'Artagnan, as far as he could remember, had ever spoken to him so personally. After the months of isolation, when he had felt utterly abandoned, it was not entirely unwelcome, although Jean's familiarity outraged his royal dignity. 

Jean dealt with him wisely, steering him through the more unpleasant phases of convalescence with calm reassurance. Slowly, Louis found himself responding. He struggled to maintain a haughty demeanor, but increasingly he began to accept Jean's help without rancor and answer his necessary questions sensibly. On the day he was strong enough to sit by the fire for a while, his legs shaky with weakness, he made no demur when Jean picked him up and carried him to the chair. Later, he so far forgot himself as to thank Jean as he settled him back into bed 

"Jean." He laid a hand on his sleeve. "That's your name?" He knew it was. He just hadn't chosen to acknowledge it before.

"Yes."

"Well … thank you." Jean said nothing, only touched Louis' shoulder briefly before he moved away to stoke the fire against the cold. Louis shot a half-defiant glance at Aramis where he sat by the window. Then he closed his eyes in sleep. 

That evening Jean sat beside the bed, playing softly on the ancient flute he took everywhere. He played execrably. Sickness fled in self-defense when Jean played his flute, Gerard sometimes joked, but Jean was impervious to insult. Louis was awake, lying gazing at the shadows cast by the firelight on the wall. He frowned as Jean played yet another wrong note. 

"Not like that." He could bear no more. "That fifth note's wrong. Put your finger there, not there. And hold the note longer."

Jean beamed at him. "You play the flute?" 

"I…used to. Sometimes." Used to. Not now. It cost him an effort to say it. 

Jean held out the flute. "Show me how it should be played."

Louis shook his head and turned abruptly on his side, away from Jean. Behind his back, Jean shrugged, unabashed; at least there had been a degree of response. He settled the covers more firmly around Louis and sat back down with his flute, careful to follow instructions. 

****************************

For once they'd left him alone. The Jesuit sat reading his missal; Porthos sat oiling a harness at the table. No-one was looking at him, talking to him, handling him.

He was free. Or at least, out of the mask and the windowless cell; away from the daily fear of his keeper. Still just as much a prisoner, but at least not in the Bastille. That had taken some time to sink in. At first, when consciousness returned, he yearned only to sleep again. He ached from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair; the slightest touch hurt his skin. Gradually, though, the periods of lucidity increased. His head still ached abominably from time to time, but less often than before. His strength was a long way from returning. But each day he felt a little better. 

His reprieve, he knew, was only temporary. His twin hadn't had the stomach to let him die. Louis' lip curled as he thought of Philippe. Too gutless to make a strong king. Louis could profit from that weakness, if only he could get away. But how? One of the Jesuits was always beside the bed, night and day. And at least one of the traitors was never far away, either in the room or within easy call. Athos was a particular worry. He'd already tried to kill him once, after his son died. Later, on that foul night that even now Louis could scarcely bear to recall, only Athos' fear for the weakling Philippe had saved him from his knife. D'Artagnan's death made things worse. Louis hadn't meant for that to happen. He'd grieved over it in the months that followed, but Athos wouldn't know or care about that. Athos might hold himself in check now, obedient to Philippe's wishes, but one slip was all he would need. Despite himself, Louis shivered at the thought.

André. He might be the weak link. André was not as remote as he tried to appear. It was André who'd hustled him off to the cell in the Bastille; Louis squirmed inwardly, remembering how he'd screamed and begged. But he could see, as he lay watching his captors, that André wasn't happy about it now. Louis would work on that, if he could. But time was too short to rely on that slim hope. Once he was well again, they'd put him back in prison.

He'd have to make a break for it. Risky, almost impossible, but he might never have another chance. There must be some way. Each day he spent a little longer out of bed. Tomorrow he'd contrive to sit by the window for a while, and study the lie of the land outside. He'd listen to conversations, do his best to establish who did what when. Sooner or later, his chance would come. 

The household routine, in the event, was easy enough to establish. The fools, Louis thought, he would have varied the pattern. In the mornings, either André or Porthos was always outside in the clearing while the other watched Louis. In the afternoons, they hunted or fished, clearing Gerard's traps, returning before dark. Aramis, when he was not in Paris reporting to Philippe, spent most of his time in Louis' room, going over papers or accounts. After breakfast he helped with the laundry, or swept the floors. At predetermined intervals, he read his missal or prayed with whichever monk was not asleep at the time. Now that the crisis was past, the monks stuck to a regular routine. Jean was either with Louis or asleep. Gerard spelled him by the bed in shifts; when he himself was not asleep, he worked with the others in the kitchen or washed clothes and sheets in a large tub beside the well, spreading them on nearby bushes to dry. Athos was less predictable; Louis could never be sure where he was or when he might appear. But he seemed to spend time after lunch each day in the kitchen rehashing old campaigns with Gerard while they worked. 

Sitting by the window, Louis saw André returning over the low pine-covered ridge. As he neared the lodge, Porthos called out to him from the kitchen door. "Oho! a fine catch! Good eating tonight." Strung from a rod over André's shoulder was a row of gleaming fish. There must be a river somewhere, then. And not too far away, since André was on foot. Louis averted his gaze from the two figures in the clearing. It wouldn't do to let Jean notice his interest. 

The next afternoon, he was further rewarded. Porthos and André walked their horses past the window on their way to hunt deer in the forest. "Where to today?" André was asking. 

"Over the river, I think. We'll cross at the ford down there and head up into the hills." 

A ford! And from the sound of it, at no great distance from the lodge. Slowly, a plan of sorts began to take shape in Louis' mind. 

***********************************************************************************

The rain began just after lunch, a fine silken mist drifting silently through the almost bare branches of the trees near the lodge and dripping gently from the pine trees on the ridge. Gerard had left some clothing spread on the bushes to dry; it would be soaked again, Athos thought idly, as he stood at the kitchen window looking out at the wintry scene. The weather looked set to worsen. The chances of getting the clothes … He stiffened, gazing through the window at the bushes. The clothes were gone. He turned to Gerard, who was chopping herbs at the table behind him. "When did you bring those clothes in? I didn't see you do it."

Gerard turned a puzzled face to him. "I didn't. I meant to, but the rain started first." He set aside his knife.

"Maybe Jean did. Maybe he brought them in to the fire." Athos' neck prickled. He was seized by an indefinable sense that something was wrong.

"No. He's been with Louis all morning." Gerard stared at him. "Why? What's the matter?"

Athos turned back to the window and looked harder at the bushes. Poking out from beneath one was a scrap of clothing. It hadn't been there earlier. Suddenly, he whirled and ran for the sickroom, slamming the door back against the wall. The room was cold, despite the fire in the huge hearth. Outside, the wind had risen, driving the rain before it; heavy wooden shutters banged back and forth against the walls. An icy draft from the open window sent sparks flying up the old stone chimney. Jean slept in a chair by the fire, utterly worn out by broken nights, lulled by the warmth of the blaze into a deep slumber. Behind him, the bed was empty. 

Athos cursed fluently. The sound roused Jean, who woke with a start. He shivered in the chair, huddling forward to the comfort of the fire. Yawning, he glanced over at the bed and stiffened in alarm. His eyes scanned the room for Louis.

Athos turned back to the door, shouting for the others. Gerard appeared from the kitchen. Aramis, book in hand, hurried down the stairs. Porthos and André were still in the stables, getting ready to hunt despite the rain. There would be hunting this afternoon, Athos thought grimly, but not for game. Uncontrollably angry now, he shouted at Aramis, whose watch this was, "Where's Louis? Where is he? And where the devil were you? " 

"He's asleep. Why?" Aramis caught the urgency in his tone. "Jean's watching him. I went up to get this from my room. A few minutes, no more."

"He's not in bed. And he's not up there?" Athos' voice shook with fury. He knew what the answer would be. Aramis shook his head, paling at the implications of the question.

They searched the lodge, but Louis was nowhere to be found. The open window mocked their efforts. Jean had shut it against the rising wind, he recalled, before he sat down by the fire. Louis had seemed to be in a deep sleep. Athos shouted out the window. "André! Porthos! Here! Now!" They appeared around the corner at a run, hands on sword hilts. He briefed them rapidly. 

Leaving Jean to keep watch at the lodge, the others fanned out in different directions. "Check the wagon and the carriage," Athos shouted. Gerard set off at a run. André and a grimly silent Aramis spread out to search the forest around the lodge. 

"They're wasting their time," Porthos fumed. "He's too weak to get far on foot. Most likely he'll try for a horse. I'll check the stables, he could have sneaked in there after we left."

Privately, Athos agreed, but he did not immediately follow Porthos. Instead he stood outside the open window, motionless, surveying the area around it. A flash of white caught his eye. Beneath the nearby bushes where the washing had been lay a crumpled nightshirt, hastily kicked under the lower branches. Louis had come this way all right. He had a head start of no more than ten minutes, if that. Which way would he go? Common sense said stables; instinct counseled otherwise. Louis was cunning. Athos turned and scanned the forest, misty in the veil of rain. Off to his left he heard André crashing around in the undergrowth, beating the brush for places where a fugitive might hide. He swiveled in the direction of the noise, waiting to see if Louis broke cover. Nothing. He waited another minute to make certain. Then he set off at a steady loping run toward the ridge, heading for the river. 

Wet branches from the smaller trees whipped at his face as he ran, drawing curses as he ducked and scrambled between them. The rain began to fall harder, driven sideways by the now piercing wind. Athos stumbled on uneven patches of ground between the trees. He slipped and slid on the carpet of wet pine needles, grabbing at bushes to right himself. At last, cresting the low ridge, he saw ahead of him the river -- and Louis, heading for the ford downstream, lurching along with a stumbling gait eloquent of fatigue. Louis forced himself on with a strength born of desperation, crashing through the undergrowth which threatened to impede his progress. He broke free into open ground and reached the shallows of the ford. 

Athos redoubled his efforts. He slid down the last of the ridge and broke across the clear ground between him and his target. Sheer rage lent him wings. Louis, hearing the noise, looked back over his shoulder, fear written clear on his face. Staggering, he began to splash through the water, heading out to the middle of the ford. The stones under his bare feet slowed him down. An instant more and Athos was upon him, bringing him down with a flying tackle which took them both crashing headlong into the shallows. 

Frantic, Louis wrenched around in the water and swung up his knee. It missed Athos' groin and crashed into his stomach. Athos retched and gasped for air, his lungs heaving. Taking advantage of the momentary respite, Louis shoved him away, stumbling half to his feet and attempting to make off across the ford. Just in time, Athos' flailing arm fastened on his sleeve and pulled him back. Regaining his feet with an effort, he felled Louis with a swinging blow with the flat of his hand, knocking him back to the edge of the shallows. Athos was on him like a tiger, pinning him with his weight. Louis bucked and thrashed beneath him, his face cut by the stones, wet hair plastered to his head. A surge of rage filled Athos, blotting out reason. One hand gripped Louis' shirt, pinning him on his back; the other sought blindly for a weapon, until it closed around a rock big enough to fill it. With a cry of triumph, he swung the rock high in the air above him. Dimly, through the pounding in his ears, he heard Aramis far behind him shout "Athos! NO!"

Louis' eyes were wide with terror. He flung up a hand to ward off the blow that would end his life. Only the reflex saved him. A memory flashed through Athos' mind, of the flinch that had wrung his heart in the early days with Philippe. Appalled, he stared down at Philippe's face, Philippe's eyes, Philippe's arm flung up in the old instinctive gesture, as if it could possibly shield him from the pain to follow. For a crucial second, he hesitated. The hand holding the rock wavered, lost its impetus, raised again as he sought in vain to recapture the urgency. But the moment had passed, and they both knew it. Lowering his arm slowly, Athos tossed aside the rock in disgust. Who the disgust was for, himself or Louis, he could not have said. 

Athos let go of Louis' shirt. Louis lay shaking in the water. Neither spoke; their lungs labored for breath. The rain fell harder, numbing their limbs with its chill and kicking up splashes around them. Slowly, Athos' heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. The thundering in his ears grew less, and he became aware once more of the howling of the wind in the pines. 

Pounding feet drew near along the bank as the others, alerted by Aramis' shout, converged on the river. Athos staggered to his feet, keeping a watchful eye on Louis. But Louis, it was clear, was beyond further resistance. Porthos splashed into the water with a roar. "Get up!" He hauled Louis to his feet. Twisting his arm up behind him, he hustled him to the bank, deaf to his cry of pain. 

André, waiting, shouted "Porthos! Watch how you treat him!" He shot a furious glare at Athos. Louis stumbled and fell as Porthos released him with a mighty shove. With a grunt of contempt, Porthos picked him up and slung him easily over his shoulder. They began the trek back across the ridge to where Jean waited in the door of the lodge with Gerard.

Aramis waited for Athos to regain the riverbank. He opened his mouth to speak, but Athos shook his head. The words died on Aramis' lips. Athos said nothing, only clasped his arms around himself for warmth. Silently, they set off after the others through the now driving wind and rain.

**********************************************************************************

Louis appeared to be in shock. He sat shivering, wrapped in a blanket on a chair near the fire, hardly able to sit up straight. Only pride kept him upright. Athos' slap had split his lip and raised an impressive swelling on his cheekbone. He had let Jean bandage his cut feet, no more. 

Aramis stalked around him, white with anger. Athos slumped on a chair by the door. He had been right: Louis had fooled them all in the end. The thought gave him no joy. André and Porthos leaned against the walls. Wet garments steamed by the fire. Jean and Gerard were hard at work in the kitchen preparing hot food for them all. Meanwhile, mulled wine helped them thaw.

"Louis!" Aramis pulled up short in front of the chair where Louis sat. "What the devil did you think you were doing?" His hand shot out and gripped Louis' arm, fingers biting deep into his shoulders. "Where would you have gone? It's ten miles to the nearest village; in this weather, you'd never have made it that far." Louis, pale with mortification, refused to answer. Aramis waited a moment, then gave up. With a snort of disgust, he released Louis' shoulder and resumed his pacing. 

A violent gust of wind howled in the chimney. The rain beat hard against the windows. Outside, a branch crashed to the ground not far away. With a scrape of wood on stone, Athos stood up and carried his chair over closer to Louis, whose mouth tightened at his approach. Athos put the chair down directly in front of him. The old wood creaked as he straddled the seat backwards, eye to eye with the captive. Louis eyed him warily. Then Athos spoke, his voice like steel.

"Listen to me, Louis. It's time you did. " Louis looked away. "I said listen! You may not deign to speak to us, but there's something you're going to hear." He left Louis no room to evade him. "You thought you'd get away today, but you were wrong. Not while I have breath to stop you. Soon you'll go back into the mask and into a cell, and this time it's for good. You'll never have the chance again. "

He had Louis' full attention now. He went on, weighting his words with deliberate cruelty. "Paris will still be the most beautiful city in the world - but you'll never see it again. Life will go on there, as rich as before -- but not for you. Those fancy clothes you used to wear? Music, dancing? The women? All gone." Each taunt found its mark. Hatred flashed in Louis' eyes, but also, beneath it, a deep and jagged pain. He stared at Athos, his eyes grown bleak. Almost, Athos felt a fleeting stab of pity. Almost, but not quite. 

Behind him, Aramis stirred. "Athos. Don't do this." The concern in his voice touched the others, but Athos paid no heed. Aramis tried again. "Please. Don't degrade yourself like this. He isn't worth it." Louis' face registered the insult.

Athos looked up at Aramis. "I need to say this. And he needs to hear it." He studied Louis' ashen face. "What's the matter? You can't take it? I haven't finished." He resumed the attack. "Then there's France itself. Spring will come along the Seine - but you won't know it. Fontainebleu? The Louvre? Lost to you forever."

Louis looked away again. A steel hand shot out and gripped his chin, forcing his face back to Athos. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" Athos' voice rose. "You loved to hunt. The woods are beautiful in the snow, aren't they? And in the autumn, when the leaves are red. Cherish the memory, Louis. Cherish it because that's all you'll ever have now. You're buried. I want you to know that. You'll have a long time to think about it." With a snort of contempt, he released Louis' chin.

"That's enough!" André detached himself angrily from the wall and started towards Athos. "Stop it, for God's sake." Athos held up a warning hand. He scowled at Louis.

"You weren't even a real king, were you. Only in name." He opened his mouth to speak, but Aramis forestalled him.

"ATHOS!!" Aramis was appalled. He shot a look at André. 

Athos ignored him and pushed on, his eyes locked on Louis'. "You don't believe it, do you! You should. I don't lie." Behind him, Porthos rose hastily and checked the door. Jean and Gerard were still in the kitchen. 

André looked at Aramis, bewildered. "What's he talking about?" His voice roughened. "What does he mean, not a real king?"

"Nothing. He's …" 

Athos cut Aramis off. "No. You saw how he looked at me today. How much longer before he sides with Louis? It's time he knew." He swung round to face André and gestured towards the stricken Louis. "He's no wronged saint. He's not the old king's son." 

André gaped incredulously at Athos. " Not the ...? What do …?" Then, explosively, "You're lying!" He was suddenly pale. "That can't possibly be true. The queen wouldn't …"

"Oh, it's true, all right. No children for all those years, then suddenly Louis -- you must have heard the rumors."

"Rumors? No. I was just a child when he was born. And my father would never hear a word against the queen, or the old king." He shook his head. "I don't understand why you'd say this. It makes no sense. If the king wasn't his father, who …" The unfinished question hung in the air. 

"D'Artagnan." The single word fell into the silence. 

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then André whispered almost wonderingly, his heart in the question, "The Captain? Treason?" He almost choked on the last word. But Athos held his gaze.

"I don't lie, André," he said simply. "I never have. And I won't start now, over him." Something in his voice gave André pause. 

"The Captain always said you couldn't lie," he said as if to himself. Then, with sudden bitterness, "But then he would, wouldn't he. If it's true. If you were all in this together." 

Athos sprang to D'Artagnan's defense. "He told no-one. We didn't know till the night he died." That still hurt. Sensing André's need, he went on. "He only told Philippe because he thought we'd all die. Nobody knows but the four of us. And the queen, of course. And now you and Louis."

André turned to Louis. His eyes, assessing, scanned his face, searching for a resemblance. Louis clutched the blanket more tightly around him and stared back defiantly. "It isn't true! It can't be!" His voice was a scream. "They know you want to help me …" He stopped, racked by shivering. 

"Oh, it's true, all right. He just doesn't want to believe it," Athos said grimly. "He has no 'divine seal.'" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Just a lot to answer for."

A shudder ran through Louis. He sagged in his chair. André dragged his eyes away and looked across at Aramis and Porthos. He read the truth in their faces. His eyes blurred with sudden tears. "Then leave him alone!" he shouted. "He's been as deceived as I have, as we all have. Damn you! Damn you all!" He turned and ran out of the lodge. 

Aramis started after him. "Leave him!" Athos' voice was sharp. "Talk to him later. Let him think about it for a bit." Aramis nodded. They turned back to Louis. 

Louis sat transfixed in his chair. In the dim light, his face was ghastly. Athos' words had cut him like the lash of a whip. The faces around him, curiously shadowed in the flickering firelight, radiated contempt. Only André's had not, but André was gone, and with him Louis' last hope.

He shivered with a cold no blanket could dispel. He felt sick. His whole body hurt. The arm Porthos had twisted ached savagely; the cuts on his face stung. Everywhere he looked, he saw only hostility. He felt utterly alone; perversely, he longed for Jean's presence. Something within him gave way, and the churning anger and hatred, his refuge for so long, dissipated. In their place a black enveloping cloud of depression seeped deep into his soul. He looked into his future: long years of echoing emptiness, of rough treatment at the hands of his jailer, his only lifeline Aramis' occasional visits which might cease at any time. He would spend what life remained to him utterly at the mercy of others. And always, in the disgusting, suffocating confines of the mask. His courage failed him at the prospect.

For the first time, he let himself think of death. Always before, he had kept the thought at bay, believing, against reason as time went on, that rescue would come. Now, the true hopelessness of his situation sank in. He sank back heavily in the chair, overcome by exhaustion and despair. When Aramis called the monks in, he let them lead him back to his bed without protest. Porthos went with them to nail the windows shut.

Athos watched Louis go. He seemed well satisfied with the reaction he had provoked. Behind him, Aramis cleared his throat. With unaccustomed diffidence, he put the question that had been uppermost in his mind since their silent return to the lodge that afternoon. "Why didn't you kill him when you had the chance? I know you gave your word, but he was trying to escape. Philippe would have known you had no choice." He paused, then went on. "You wanted to, didn't you. I saw you." Raoul's name lay there between them. And Philippe's. And his father's. 

Athos turned. "I almost did. As you know, if you saw me. But I promised Philippe, and you." Not even to Aramis would he reveal what had really saved Louis. "Let's just say I couldn't be bothered in the end." That was all he would say. Aramis shot a covert look at his old friend. The lines of strain around his eyes seemed a fraction less pronounced. 

"I'm sorry," Athos said. "I should have talked to you before I let André in on things."

"Well, it's out in the open now." Aramis shrugged. "For better or worse." 

"Aramis …" Athos' voice trailed off. It had been a long day. He looked every year of his age. Wordlessly, he held out his arms. Aramis went to him at once. Silently, they embraced, drawing warmth from the contact, and broke apart, comforted. 

*********************************************************************************

André sat angrily in the stables. Behind him, the horses whickered softly as they shifted in their stalls. He started as Aramis ran into the stable, cloak held tight around him against the downpour.

"What do you want?" It came out surlier than he'd intended. 

"To talk to you, of course." Aramis ran his hands through his wet hair. He sat down some distance away on an upturned pail. 

André made an impatient gesture. "Just tell me one thing. Is it true?" His eyes were fierce. Aramis met them squarely. 

"Yes." Just that, no more.

It was all that André needed. Tears pricked behind his eyes. "And the king … Louis didn't know?"

"Not till months after D'Artagnan was dead. He won't believe it, though. He thinks we're making it up."

André laughed harshly. "Can you blame him? His mother and the Captain? Why would he want to believe it?" But his heart ached. The Captain had been his idol, his ideal of honor. He said suddenly, "How can you blame Louis for thinking he was God's elect? For all he knew, he was. The sin's not his. It's his father's". And his mother's.

"He doesn't deserve your loyalty," Aramis said. "His actions …"

"An oath is an oath. It can't be broken," André interrupted fiercely. "That's what my father taught me, what I always thought the Captain believed." He paused, struck by a sudden realization. "Then … Philippe is no more royal than Louis. He has no more right to the throne than Louis does." 

"That's true," Aramis agreed quietly. "But he's still the son of a queen." 

"They both are, if it comes to that. And you know that makes no difference."

"Surely it must make some?" Aramis leaned forward, his voice rising urgently above the hammering of the rain on the roof. "André -- you must see. Louis had to go. We didn't know about D'Artagnan then. But France was heading for rebellion. Bloodbaths, murder. Anything would be better than that. "

André seemed unconvinced. "You're a priest. Why do you connive in this lie?"

"It's what I said before. The lesser of two evils. Sometimes you have to choose."

André stared at him for a long moment. Then he stood up and walked to the door, looking out at the forest in the rain. Aramis moved to stand beside him. He laid a hand on André's shoulder.

"Will you stand with us? And serve Philippe?"

"I don't know what to do. I have to think." André's voice was wretched. He shrugged off Aramis' hand.

Aramis spoke firmly. "Then think. But do nothing yet. Let us get Louis back to the Bastille before trouble starts. Talk to Philippe if you like, but not to anyone else. You gave Philippe your word. Remember that."

André swung around. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. Aramis held his eyes. The seconds crawled by. Then André nodded. "I don't break my promises." Bitterness suffused his voice. "Usually, anyway." He pulled his wet garments around him and strode out into the rain. 

That evening Louis' fever returned as the chill of the water and the trauma of the day's events took their toll. It was several days before he was again able to speak coherently. Aramis continued his reports to Paris during that time. Anne and Philippe were relieved to hear that the escape attempt had failed. Philippe seemed strangely abstracted. Concern for Athos, Aramis assumed. He reassured Philippe that he was safe.

Jean and Gerard tended Louis assiduously, as before, but their demeanor was solemn. Louis seemed not to notice, or care. He lay often with his eyes fixed upon the window, seemingly contemplating an inner landscape invisible to the others. Athos was never far away. Louis' eyes would fasten on him as he stood by the window or sat by the fire with a weary resignation that chilled Athos even as he exulted in it. He shook off the feeling with an effort. For all that he'd allowed Philippe's image to sway him at the ford, he had no intention of making Louis' life easier on that account. 

André was silent and heavy-eyed. He moved about his normal duties, speaking little, eating less. Athos heard him pacing his room late at night, murmuring prayers in the small hours. He seemed to have worked out the implications of his discovery; the realization shocked him deeply. Jean and Gerard knew better than to ask what was wrong. They saw to it that he was left alone.

At last Louis was well enough to travel. The next day he would return to prison. In the winter dusk, he and Athos sat in the kitchen, finishing an early supper. Louis ate little; he pushed the food around his plate with a piece of bread, taking only an occasional bite. Since his abortive attempt at escape, the fight had seemed to go out of him, but Athos didn't trust him and lost no opportunity to let him know it. He watched him closely in the kitchen now. The others were outside helping Porthos shift the wagon, which was mired in the mud after a week of heavy rain. They would need it the following day. 

Louis was more than usually quiet. His former arrogance was nowhere in evidence. He was pliant but not communicative; he did not respond to Athos' occasional remarks, only stared at his plate. He was clearly deeply depressed. 

"Louis." Athos poked his arm. "Eat. You'll be back in the mask tomorrow. Make the most of tonight."

"I won't go!" A sudden spasm of anguish shook him. "You can't do this. You can't!"

Athos laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Yes, we can. We already have." He rose and carried his plate to the sideboard. 

The crash behind him, when it came, took him by surprise. He swung round. Louis had smashed his plate and was fumbling with one of the pieces. Suddenly Athos realized he meant to slash his wrists. "NO!" The shout exploded from him. Lunging across the space between them, he knocked Louis sideways to the floor. Louis struggled to hold on to the sharp sliver of pottery, gashing his fingers deeply in the process, but the fall knocked it from his grasp. It skittered out of reach across the flags. 

Louis made an inarticulate sound in his throat, clawing after it. Athos' booted foot came down hard on his wrist, pinning it to the floor. "No!"

"Why not?" The scream was agonized. Louis jerked over on his side and tried to kick Athos' legs from under him. Athos saw it coming. A solid kick to the stomach and a second to the ribs left Louis doubled up and retching, incapable of further fight. 

For a moment, Athos wavered. Why not? It would solve so many problems, theirs and Louis' both. A quiet grave in the forest, an end to the danger … He shook his head, forcing the thought away. "I promised Philippe no harm would come to you. I can't let you harm yourself." Louis groaned, the sound wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. Athos' breath rasped in his throat. He'd almost been too late. He kept up the pressure of his foot on Louis' arm.

Running footsteps drew near outside. The door burst open. Aramis, drawn by the sound of the breaking plate, hurtled into the room, sword half-drawn. Porthos was just behind him. They checked themselves at the sight of Athos, obviously unharmed, and Louis, patently no threat to anyone. 

"Later." Athos jerked his head towards the door. Porthos turned at once and left the room. 

Aramis looked uncertainly at Louis on the floor, then back to Athos. Reluctantly, he withdrew. "I'll be outside if you need me." 

For some time the only sound in the kitchen was Louis' gasping breaths. Athos said nothing, waiting. When it seemed safe to do so, he took his foot off Louis' wrist. He walked to where the pottery shard lay half-hidden under the dresser. Picking it up, he gathered the rest of the broken plate and methodically smashed the whole into tiny fragments. Then he returned to where Louis lay.

Louis' breathing began to ease. For a few moments more he lay without moving. Then, with difficulty, he levered himself slowly up on his elbows, pushing himself into a sitting position until he eventually slumped back on his heels. He wrapped his arms round himself. "You should have let me do it." More a groan than a statement. The blood from his cut fingers soaked into his shirt. 

Athos turned to call Aramis, then checked the movement. He looked back at Louis, noting almost clinically the white, drawn face, the slump of exhaustion and defeat. Despite himself, he felt a stab of pity. Raoul and Christine were dead because of Louis. So was D'Artagnan. That could not be denied. Still, the experience at the ford had shaken Athos. He'd come within an inch of killing Philippe's brother, and D'Artagnan's son. D'Artagnan's son …

Once again D'Artagnan's defense of Louis echoed in his mind. He'd been pleading for his son, had Athos only known it at the time. But he hadn't known, and he'd been vicious in his anger and despair. The memory of the things he'd said was a sword-thrust in his heart. One more fault to add to his list. In his own way, as Aramis had reminded him, he was as flawed as Louis. The only difference was that his side had won and Louis had lost. Redemption, Aramis had said. It meant something different to Aramis, of course. But perhaps, Athos thought, looking at Louis, he himself might yet find peace.

Athos heard Aramis outside the door. He heaved a long sigh and looked down at Louis. Reluctantly, he held out his hand. "You'd better let me look at those fingers." His voice was gruff. Louis seemed not to register the words at first. Impatiently, Athos repeated them. At length, Louis slowly raised his head. He looked in disbelief at the proffered hand. A faint flush rose slowly in his face as he lifted his eyes to Athos. 

After a while, wincing at the pain of the cuts, he held out his hand and let Athos help him to his feet. Athos began to steer him back to the table, then stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Best to make one thing clear. "Understand this." He underlined each word. "If you attempt this again, or attempt another escape -- I will stop you. Do you understand me? I will stop you." Louis believed him implicitly. He nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from Athos'. "Good. You'd do well to remember that. Now sit down and let me see your hand. Jean's still asleep -- no point in waking him." 

He busied himself fetching water from the kettle on the hob and strips of linen from Jean's basket. Louis sat numbly, saying nothing. Outside Porthos cursed as he strained to shift the wagon. The others joined in as they hauled on the ropes, slipping and sliding in the mud. In the next room, Aramis paced restlessly, his boots beating a tattoo on the floor. Athos sat down at the table with a bowl of water and the bandages. He took Louis' hand and began to bathe the deep cuts on his fingers. "Tell me something." Louis raised his head and looked directly at him. For once, Athos could have sworn, human recognition flickered in his eyes. "The other day … where did you think you were going when you ran?" He was genuinely curious.

Louis considered the question with no trace of his habitual bravado. His voice was flat. "I don't know. I didn't have any real plan. Just to get away … somewhere." He flinched as the water stung the cuts on his fingers. "It was too good a chance to miss. Jean was asleep, no-one else was there. I saw the clothes outside." Something of the old fire flashed in his eyes. "I had to try." Athos nodded. Louis seemed to rally a little. "Since we're asking questions," he said with a tinge of his former sarcasm, "why …" hesitating, then taking the plunge, "why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? "

Athos looked at him darkly. "It had to do with honor. You wouldn't understand".

Louis flushed at the insult, but he was not diverted. "No. It was more than that. It was because I look like … him, wasn't it. My brother. Philippe!" He spat the name.

"Savor the irony, Louis." Despite himself, Athos' voice grew ragged with anger on Philippe's behalf as he bound Louis' fingers firmly. He hammered the point home. "For years you hid his face from the world. In a mask, locked away where no-one could ever see him. But we found him. And that's the only reason you're alive today. You look exactly like him." 

He looked directly into Louis' eyes. Louis had always been impervious to disapproval, but it seemed to Athos that his eyes held the first confused stirrings of doubt. Good, he thought, regaining his composure. Let that fester in the solitude to come. "I spared you for your brother's sake." He hesitated, then went on. "And above all, for your father's. He was one of us once. As he was again at the end."

Louis opened his mouth to protest, but Athos cut him off. "You are D'Artagnan's son, whether you want to believe it or not. Philippe knows it, your mother knows it. And now you know it." Louis shook his head in violent denial. "Ask yourself why he turned against you at the end. To save his other son. The brother you were bent on killing. You don't want to believe it, I know. You should, though." His eyes bored into Louis. His words had the unmistakable ring of truth. "Why do you think he stuck with you so long, and tried to teach you what honor means? You should have listened. You could have been a man, like him. Like your father."

"No. You're lying!" A last-ditch struggle. But Louis' voice was fraying. His breath came in gasps. His eyes, no longer cold and hard, pleaded with Athos. "It's not … you can't … I didn't …" He shut his eyes hard and shook his head again desperately. 

"You begin to understand, don't you." Athos' voice was almost compassionate. He could not bring himself to drive the knife home. The bandaging finished, he pushed back his chair and walked to the door to call Aramis.

Louis stared after him. The fear so long denied engulfed him at last. He called Athos back. His face was ashen. "If what you say is true," hardly more than a whisper, " if it is, then I … then I …" His eyes were wide with horror.

"Yes," Athos said simply. "You killed your father." Louis stared unseeingly at him. The fading bruise on his cheek stood out stark against the pallor of his face. The anguish in his eyes mirrored the pain in Athos' own. Athos stretched out a tentative hand, but something in Louis' stillness warned him not to touch him. He turned slowly back to the door. 

At the table behind him, heedless of the pain, Louis dropped his head in his hands. 

***************************************************************

The last rays of the setting sun slanted through the clearing. The shadows were already deep on the ground. Outside the lodge, the carriage and the wagon waited, loaded up and ready to go. Except for the big room where Athos and a silent Louis waited with Aramis, the windows of the lodge were shuttered. Porthos had seen to it that the hearths were swept out and the well covered. Only one thing remained to do.

Jean came in with a strong-smelling draft of valerian. "Louis. Drink this," he said quietly. He held out the cup. "It will calm you." Louis' face was drawn; dark circles ringed his eyes. He had not slept the previous night, only lain staring into the darkness, Jean had said. Aramis wondered again what had taken place in the kitchen last night. Louis had tried to kill himself, it appeared. He'd been distraught when Athos finally let Aramis into the kitchen. Aramis had heard the murmur of their voices for a long time before that. Something else had happened, he was sure, but Athos would not talk about it where Louis might hear. Louis himself would speak to no-one. He had seemed to slide into a leaden depression as Jean took him off to the other room. Now he was tense and on edge. The mask would soon reappear. 

Louis took the cup. He hesitated. Porthos moved towards him threateningly. "Drink it." He drank. The drug seemed to calm him a little. Jean left the room with the empty cup.

When Aramis judged it was time, he went into the kitchen and returned holding the mask in his hands. Louis panicked when he saw it. He sprang up, knocking over the chair. His eyes flicked frantically around the room, seeking an impossible escape. Athos moved quickly behind him and pinioned his arms. He felt a shudder of terror run through Louis as the mask approached his face, and heard his sharp intake of breath. He motioned Aramis away with his head. Aramis was glad of the momentary reprieve.

"Louis," Athos said quietly. "Sit down for a minute. We'll talk about this." Louis remained rigid with fear for a few seconds more. Then the breath went out of him in a rush; he sagged back against Athos. Athos helped him to a chair and sat down on another in front of him. 

"Listen to me." He'd said that to him after the ford, but his voice was different now, no longer hard-edged with anger or contempt. Aramis looked at him curiously. Athos spoke to Louis firmly. "You can do this one of two ways. Either way, it's going to happen. " Firmly, but almost gently, Aramis thought with surprise.

The drug had Louis in its sway now; the eyes looking back at Athos were dulled a little. But his fear was palpable; his hands shook. 

"Listen to me," Athos said calmly. "You can't escape this. We can put it on you by force, the way your men did with Philippe." Louis averted his eyes. "Or you can show some backbone and put it on yourself. You're afraid of it. Your father was afraid, many times. It didn't make him less of a man. Put it on yourself. He would have. "

Emotional control was not Louis' strength. He looked up at Aramis, who stood with the mask in his hands. Behind him, Porthos loomed, ready in case of trouble. Louis looked back at Athos. Still he said nothing. 

"Show some dignity," Athos said. "You'll have enough to think about later. Don't add humiliation to it. Your choice." Louis closed his eyes. He sat immobile for a long moment. Athos waited. Then Louis opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and nodded. 

Athos stood up. So did Louis, swaying a little under the effects of the valerian. On his feet, at least; that was something. Athos took the mask from Aramis and held it out to him. Louis opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Suddenly he took the mask and with a convulsive movement fitted it rapidly to his face. Aramis went round behind him with the key. In another moment, it was done.

Porthos roped Louis' arms to his sides. He led him outside to the waiting carriage. Athos followed them out and waited until Louis was settled in one corner. Then he spoke. "You did well. You can ride here. But any trouble and we'll put you in the wagon." He closed the door. 

Aramis came out of the lodge. He gestured to Athos. Athos moved over to where he stood. "What ...?"

"Later. Let's get him back there first." Aramis nodded. Time enough for explanations tomorrow. He went to the carriage and got in. The carriage creaked as Porthos, coming back from closing the remaining shutters, climbed in after him. His giant bulk filled the corner opposite Louis. Outside, André saddled up his horse. He would ride sentry on the return trip.

Jean and Gerard came out of the lodge with the last of their boxes. They locked the door behind them and loaded them into the wagon. The vehicles would travel in convoy back to Paris. Gerard climbed up onto the driver's seat and took the reins in his hand. Jean walked over to the carriage to hand the key to Porthos. He opened the door where Louis sat. Louis' head drooped with the lingering effects of the valerian. All that Jean could see of his face was his eyes. Silently, he reached in and clasped Louis' hand gently, careful not to hurt the bandaged fingers. Louis' fingers returned the pressure fractionally. Jean smiled. He touched Louis' knee reassuringly. Then he walked over to the wagon and swung himself up beside Gerard.

The wagon trundled off in the wake of the carriage down the path leading away from the lodge. Athos could hear the rumble of its wheels as he stood beside his horse in the clearing, tightening the saddle girths. André's horse, alongside the carriage, whinnied softly. Athos frowned, thinking of André. Problems ahead for Philippe, perhaps. Still, for now, André was still with them. That was enough for today. With a last tug at the straps, he swung into the saddle and spurred off down the trail, leaving the clearing empty and silent in the gathering dark.

   [1]: mailto:r_amadeus@hotmail.com



End file.
